


Seduction Techniques

by foolscapper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 04:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10236299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolscapper/pseuds/foolscapper
Summary: Just a prompt request for Max/Sam, involving some smooching. Obliged!!





	

It stands to reason that they’d run into the witch twins relatively close to when they’d met them — after all, hunters usually ended up on the same track, following the signs of the freshest hunt on the map. Sam’s not sure when he and Dean became reluctant when it came to teaming up with others — y’know, watching so many friends die around you usually’ll do it — but they weren’t given much option. Max and Alicia slide into the booth and that’s that, they’re in the middle of a wendigo hunt.

Dedicated to Asa, of course. And perhaps even to John Winchester, who guided them through many similar hunts of their own. They trudge through heavy brush on a hunch; missing teens, shredded campsite, looked to be pretty solid, even if the weather patterns weren’t exactly perfectly aligned. Sam figured it was worth a romp and a couple of flare guns. 

Dean and Alicia hit the families for information, and he and the witch have merely decided to play guard to the chirping green canopy stretched out before them. Dean of course was hesitant, always hesitant, because leaving him with what was nearly a stranger wasn’t great. But Sam didn’t mind. It was good for them to branch out a little.

Truth be told, he saw something beneficial, in that wake. 

Unified community. People watching each other’s backs. 

Maybe they need a little bit of that. What was it he said to Dean, before? Looking for someone to be with, who would understand the life? Yeah. Maybe they just need a few helping hands to guide them through their bitter, aged isolation. Or maybe Sam just feels that odd, seasonal burst of neediness, of a desire for companionship. He may be far more withdrawn from societal norms than he’s ever been before, but it didn’t mean he always enjoyed being alone.

“You know,” Max says in a low, smooth sound, passing Sam a cold beer from that old familiar green cooler. “My sister is probably seducing your brother. She’s got a real thing for freckles. We could end up abandoned.”

He grins, and Sam rolls his eyes at the thought.

“Well, at least someone’ll be happy tonight.” A record in his head skips when he remembers they’re talking about each other’s siblings — even worse, he’s talking about his brother having sex with this guy’s sister (younger? older? by how much? how old are they, again?). He flusters, waving a hand. “I mean, sorry, that’s — brain bleach. I shouldn’t — ”

“Talk about my sister in post-coital bliss with your functionally alcoholic stud of a brother?” Max grins around the rim of the beer bottle, gulping. “It’s fine, man. We’re not exactly a conventional family. We’re both massive perverts and we know it.”

Sam snorts, and though still mildly ashamed, they sit in relatively restful silence. It’s still bright out, and they’re still comfortably in their wards with flare guns rested in their laps. Max’s smile is still there when Sam glances at him, a sort of mischievous twist that reminds him of Dean in their high school years. 

“I mean,” Max says, “We could always steal their thunder.”

He says it so easily, like it’s breathing, or something. Sam chokes on his drink, hair flopping a bit. Looking at this guy — not a kid, he reminds himself, because sometimes everyone looks like a kid to his old soul — he flounders a bit for an answer. It’s not the first time he’s been hit on by guys. But the dangerous and seductive Sam that didn’t give two shits and dove into rough kissing and heavy touches had died twice: once when he caused a fucking Apocalypse, and once when his soul was unceremoniously shoved back in like a man into an iron maiden. 

So. Still awkward territory. He clears his throat.

“Uh, pass. I don’t think that’s really my thing.”

“Never been with a guy before?” Max asks, humored. Sam’s always been terrible at being anything but honest, when it comes to matters of the heart. And bedfellow. 

“… Not exactly. It’s been…. a long time.” He laughs, flustered, pressing his cold beer to his temple. “You’re kind of young for me, aren’t you?”

“I’m a hunter in my mid-twenties. It makes me at least forty in experience.” He nudges Sam with an easy aura about him. “In hunting in a forest and in a bedroom.” And Sam just shakes his head, because at this guy’s age, he was mourning the loss of his fiance. Max is definitely more of a Dean Winchester build than him. 

He blinks and the man is leaning in close, breath hot and eyes translucent green in the sunshine that perforates the treetops. “Maybe I could give you a lesson or two on those seduction techniques I learned, old man.”

And for a moment, Sam nearly leans right into it at first go, like he’d be rude not to — that’d be him, too polite to decline when an attractive and decent person actually gives him a chance to say no. It’s Piper all over again, with her easy smile and her earnest question — _You wanna go have a night of it, just you and me?_ And he had been so fucking relieved to actually get a say in it, he left his jacket in the diner. Now there’s a hesitancy, and the other man sees it easily — and in a move fifty times more sexy than the actual flirting, he leans away with some level of concern in his brow to give Sam space. 

Fuck it.

Max seems surprised when Sam’s lips hit his first, like his whole routine had been jarred and taken right out of his hands and into Sam’s, who is apparently more capable than he’d bet on; he kisses back after a moment of Sam’s expert tongue probing, his confusion sparking into genuinely impressed amusement. Sam’s not really into guys as much as girls; he’s got his exceptions, lord knows he does, but this is a road less traveled. He’s more familiar with softer curves and less angled jawlines. But hell, it’s nice, and Max is entirely pleased with the state of things. Sam, too, really. It’s good. It’s good to feel fingers slide under layers of plaid to massage the skin beneath. It’s good, it’s good, it’s good. And it’s not in his head; that much he’s sure about. His back hurts from being thrown into bookshelves, bruised to hell and stiff. This is reality. And reality smells nice, like carefully selected cologne from some mid-tier clothing store.

It’s nice.

… Until they accidentally set off the flare gun being manhandled between them and it goes spiraling off into the sky.

When Dean and Alicia return, no clear traces of debauchery in the states of _their_ hair or clothes, they find Sam sitting red-faced with his shirt askew and Max — Belle of the Ball — grinning and twirling the spent flare-gun on his index finger. 


End file.
